of the new year
by small-town hearts
Summary: everything's just a little too perfect, in westchester. —harris/skye
1. winter

**author's note: this will be a four-part drabble series (first attempt at writing, so not too much harsh feedback, 'kay?)**

**-arabella**

* * *

**[winter]**

There are voided spaces in time.

You don't know where they really are, but sometimes, there's just these little cracks of little infinities. They're beautiful, to say the least; they're everything that a person could ever wish for seeing, those flashbacks and memories and cinematic daydreams all wrapped up into a beautiful bundle: hopes and wishes, goals unreached.

She just masks her dissapointment and walks on.

Her shoulders are bent, snow flurries spinning in the shape of a tornado, a never-ending circle around her frail body. Skye Hamilton has always wanted to see the world: to travel through all of space and time, the empty dimensions, to see the worst of the world and the best of it; she's just wanted to travel. Skye is a small-town girl, with dreams that could encompass the entire of the country, though.

Rejection is not, perhaps, the sweetest of surprises that one could expect on a Christmas 'morn; she woke up, ran down the staircase without brushing her hair, and was caught on camera, paparazzi filming her state of utter humiliation after not being accepted into another year of the Alpha Academy. And the worst part of all, was that, her parents were there.

Skye's parents were really never there, for her.

Yet at the worst moments of her life, they always seemed to turn up; just, when they really shouldn't have been there. Their eyes are empty, milky white pearls, yet slanted all at the same time, and Skye can hear the words of emptiness. "Why, Skye? Why can't you ever be good enough?"

"I'm going out," she comments, when the paparazzi finally leaves.

Walking through the snow, Skye examines the world around here: it's painted, like an oil canvas, in all its perfect Westchester white magnificence. Unlike most days, where Skye sits down on the porch and admires the never-ending perfection, she just wants to destroy the bland world around here. Sometimes, on days like these, Skye feels like she's living in a dollhouse.

It's just a little _too _perfect to be considered **real.**

In a million years, Skye would never admit the fact, but she yearned for something that had flaws (just not herself, 'kay?). She found beauty in imperfection: blind eyes that turned up, yet could never see the light.

.

.

.

_Am I crazy? _she asks to her mother, who's cleaning the mahogany table, near the foyer. Her mother looks up, just for a slight second, almost ignoring the question in its entirety, before looking down once more.

It's almost impercetible, but Skye can see a nod. _Yes, yes, Skye. You're senile._

_._

_._

_._

The snow carries along a midsummer's breeze, and the seasons change.


	2. spring

**[spring]**

_Take a deep breath._

Close your eyes, and maybe then everything will get better; all your dreams will start coming true and it would be as though nothing bad had ever happened to you in the first place. That's not true though; Skye knows the bitter, bitter truth. Then again, the truth isn't very bitter, as she knows. It is the lies, that starts off as sweet as licorice, like candy almost, that are sweet.

Then again, the truth and the lie are the same.

Not the same, she presumes. They're more like, oh, what's the right word? Similar. Corresponding, even, if that makes sense to compare triangles and other figures of geometry to real life situations. The truth is setting you free; at least that's what the books and magazines and movies and television shows are telling her, the truth will help you, and it's not even that hard.

Yes, it is.

They don't know really know anything, do they?

Skye's had secrets.

Her entire lithe frame is weighed down, and suddenly she's six feet under in secrets; everybody trusts little miss perfect, and before you know it, Skye's been drowned and revived and drowned and revived, and then the cycle just keeps on continuing. And suddenly, 'cause she knows that everything's going to get much better, since she's read books like this.

It's like they know her.

That's why she likes reading so much, 'cause, basically, once she's read a book, (it's almost routine for her to read a book every night before she goes to sleep), and it just makes her feel so amazing inside, like someone out there _cares. _And then her world comes crashing down around her, because she knows that nobody cares about her and nobody ever will.

.

.

.

"Do you know my name?"

"Of course I do. You're Skye Hamilton."

"And you're Harris Fisher."

.

.

.

There's nothing more to say.

Of course, they met at a spring gala, but nothing ever happened after there; Skye tried to flirt with Harris, but she's not really good with the whole thing, and ended up getting her hair stuck in a massive knot and tied to her necklace. Three weeks later, she's been fitted and sent a box in the mail; three weeks later, she almost forgot about the whole incident.

In the box is a wig.

That's when Skye Hamilton, yes, the Skye Hamilton, starts to break down, and after a while, she just stops trying to bottle up her emotions and keep this perfect, reserved facade on, because unlike her perfect acquaintances and perfect classmates and perfect parents and perfect family, she's just not that good at keeping calm and carrying on.

She never will be.

Not in winter, and not in spring.

Skye will leave it for summer to decide who she is.

* * *

**a/n: **this is really stupid, but i'm having zero inspiration. oh, well. thanks for all the awesome feedback, guys!


	3. summer

This summer is _meant _to be perfect.

She is sitting in front of the computer, tapping her fingers randomly, making angry clips as she curses the gods of hacking, wondering how on earth this is going to work out, this of course being the perfect summer. Skye will become much smarter, in order to stop having to lie to make her parents "proud" of her (as if they could ever/would ever be).

Her mother is now yelling at her, telling her to get off the computer screen, because if she doesn't, she'll be hit.

Skye brushes the thought away, because deep down she knows that no matter what she does, her parents will always hit and hate her: she wonders sometimes if her birth was an accident, or perhaps she was an adopted child. There's this emptiness; not enough glue in the world will fix the broken hearts. Skye is typing randomly at the computer, again, recording everything that happens.

People who usually do things like that want to remember, but there's nothing that Skye wants to do more than forget; in the middle of the summer, in the mixes of ice cold vanilla and strawberry sorbet, she loses herself in frantic worries and spiraling.


End file.
